Vice: 2120 (IC)
Posted: Tue Jul 28, 2020 8:44 pm
OOC
September 14th, 2120
Sector 13, Zone L
Old Oakland Marshalling Yard
21:45 Hours
"Yuh, got the rocks, chief?" The sound of nostrils clearing as a quartet of figures stood in the deeper shadow of an old run down freight train yard. Long since incorporated as one of many stops adjacent to the Old Oakland Mag-Lev line running North-South through the Sector. The lapping of water to the West thrushing amid the rocks and concrete containment walls formed a moving mass of surface punctuated by the tops of half drowned towers. Remnants of the old districts of Oakland that had flooded when the polar ice caps first melted and Sea level rose over fifty meters. The man who initially spoke, gruff with long dreadlocks and a short rough black beard looked at his gloomy opposite from dark brown eyes. His light chocolate skin rough and clear signs of blue collar work on his hands, while muscles from either bodybuilding or hard labor showed from under patched denim overalls and jacket. His compatriot was similar if slight of build and puffed on a cheap cigarette of vat-grown tobacco.
Hair cropped short and pox scars on fair cheeks with slight blond stubble under his chin. His wife beater get up of white tank top and shorts finished the ensemble via dirty once-white-sneakers. Their opposites were pair of Asian men who wore leather jackets and riding slacks. Behind them a pair of motor-bikes from Harley-Kawasaki rested on polished silver kick stands. The desolate drab buildings around them full of smashed windows and detritus strewn doorways contrasted with the latter two's get up almost to a tee.
The Asian male on the right spoke up in reply, "Yeah, we got your dollar-bags, chill." Nodding to his comrade the Asian male on the left produced two small pouches containing clear synth-crack rocks bearing a slight rainbow glitter. C-Star, that's what the street called it. Lab synthesized crack cocaine infused with trace amounts of a home made LSD formula. Producing an extremely intense high, feelings of euphoria for an entire day with one hit, and very, very, addicting. A dollar-bag containing several rocks would last an addict a week as one intended. From their the price increased per rock.
The first pair produced a couple of Dollars as they readied to make the exchange, when the caucasian male to the right of the man with dreadlocks suddenly asked a question, "You guys carrying any Molly, good ole' shit, lookin to hit up a block party and get some of that sweet sweet poon." Dreadlocks chuckled and the Asian male holding the bags smiled, "We might. Not cheap though, fifty dollah's a pop."
"Fifty, shied, man. Better be so real shit. Not some of that fake ass diluted crap the Twenty-One Hundred Blues been sellin'."
"We're not the Twenty-One Hundred Blues friend." responded the Caucasian males counterpart.
The other Asian male shifted on his feet, "Look, we got a few hits of the real shit. Goin' to have to meet tomorrow for mo-, oh fuck!"
Blazing sirens as red, white, and blue lights lit up the dark mustering yard. The throaty thrum of a Grav-bike's repulsor field rising loudly as an armored figure sat on top of the flying cousin of the Asian males own motorcycles. A booming female voice assisted by a built in communication system in the Grav-bike blared. This is the law! Stay where you are with your hands up!
The Asian male carrying the dollar-bags dropped them as he sprinted off towards the bikes. Crack of a gunshot and the man bit the asphalt hard. Face first and rolling onto his side as he screamed in agony from a destroyed right kneecap. The bullet having shorn through the tendons to crack the knee cap and tumble out of an exit wound to the side. The Grav Bike touched pavement and the armored figure was already advancing, siren killed, backlit by the flashing lights mounted to the front and rear of the Grav-bike.
The other Asian male reached into his waistband before being pitched on his back by another gunshot. Red slowly expanding around his skull. The other two males backed away quickly. The Caucasian male tripping over a rock to land up against the mustering yard's pocked red brick wall. The advancing figure fully materializing into view, presaged by a pair of malevolent red-orange eyes staring unblinking from an angular full face helmet. The man with the dreadlocks raised his hands over his heads.
"Judge, we, we don't know these guys, its not what it looks like!" The red eyes moved with the aim of the fire arm clutched in an armored fist. "Citizen, Rodney Stallen, 37 from Mega-Block 144, Crisp Pines. You're under arrest for intent to buy narcotics as per Pacifica Penal Code 26/2 Subsection B, on the purchase of Illicit Drugs."
The Caucasian male, eyes wide with shock, propped himself up on his shoulder with arms out in front of him. The malevolent eyes looked over at him briefly, "Same for you, Cory Stackhouse, 35, also from Crisp Pines. Your sentences are a mandatory ten years in an Iso-Cell."
"C-come on Judge, it was a dollar-bag!"
"You said it's not what it looks like?" responded the helmeted figure of a Pacifica Inspector. The name: ZVEZDA, in raised relief on a golden badge over a stylized bronze eagle, while INSPECTORATE ran across the top of the gold badge inset into the left chest plate of the Inspector's body armor. The response, almost comedic in timing, caught both men aback as they glanced at each other. The man with the dreadlocks began to speak again, but more calmly, "They're friends of friends, we were going to a party, they brought that-,"
"Thought you didn't know them? Storytelling isn't your strong suit Rodney. Unless you go to abandon lots to meet friends of friends, whom you've never met before, frequently which is definitely abnormal. Especially, friends of friends who are Triad members. Who just so happened to bring the drug of choice for two felons with a long rap-sheet of drug possession. Sound about right?" Her words were cold, and that wasn't due to the voice box built into the Inspector's helmet either. Raising her opposing wrist she made to swipe a digit across a small polymer screen which lit up green. As she did so the man with the dread locks grunted as he swung his arms out. A quarter of blades springing from his fore arms. Mantis Blades. Popularized in the 2070's and 2080's due to earlier 21st century pop culture.
The Inspector side stepped, grabbed one of the man's arms and brought an armored knee cap up swiftly. Breaking his elbow. The man screamed, pitch rising as he was suddenly grasped by his own dreadlocks and hauled up. Not to face the Inspector, but away, and there the Caucasian man fumbled to take the safety off a small short nose pistol. One of those cheap cobbled together pieces from various spare parts by undercity gunsmiths.
"Drop the weapon, citizen!" said the Inspector quickly, clearly, and decisively as her own side arm came to a trained rest. The man with dreadlocks struggling with futility as he jerked and janked within the confines of her iron clad restraint. The Caucasian man finally thumbed the safety and made to raise it. His left eye socket burst in a spurt of gore as a third round exited the Inspector's Lawman. The last man, with the mantis claws and dread locks, began to mutter something akin to a prayer under his breath. When suddenly the iron grip released and he was pushed away.
"In addition to your previous charge, you're now charged with the attempted murder of an Inspector. What is your defense, citizen?" stated the Inspector matter-of-fact.
"I-Please, please!"
"Defense noted." Crack-thud.
Heavy armored footfalls sounded lowly on the pavement as the Inspector moved over to the first man shot. The Asian male in an almost delirious calm from blood loss. An expanding pool of red spreading from his ruined leg. The pair of malevolent red-orange eyes resting upon him. Lowering to crouch beside him. "If you answer my questions I can promise you chance of parole after five years in an Iso-Cell. How do you plead?"
"Ambulance, Ju-j-Inspector I-," mumbled the man as his grip slackened around his knee. His left arm rising up towards a pocket. The Lawman rising to aim at the side of the man's head as from the pocket emerged a knife, the Triad member released a yell his body with all remaining energy twisted to offer one good stab at his killer. His yell turning to a gasp as an armored hand grabbed his wrist. His strength ebbing he dropped the knife almost instantly. The Inspector rose to her feet and pointed her Lawman at the man's skull. His eyes fading away as his last breathe exited his lips. The pool of red almost touching the boots of Inspector Zvezda. Who now spoke into a risen vambrace still glowing with a green-lit stripe.
"Inspector Zvezda. Requesting meat-wagon to my position. Four bodies for recycling and narcotic retrieval."
The chirp of a woman's voice materializing along the airwaves a couple seconds later, <<Copy that Inspector Zvezda, meat-wagon inbound for four, and narcotic retrieval, to your marked position. Over.>>
Letting her wrist drop Inspector Zvezda moved over and crouched near the dropped dollar-bags. Picking one up gingerly she looked at them from behind her helmet's face mask.
September 15th, 2120
Over Sector 13
0635 Hours
The thrum of synth-bio fuel powered engine turbines filled the spartan cargo bay interior of the small armored Judicial transport craft. The Arbitrator pilot, wearing an Arbitrator pilot's trademark black jumpsuit and helmet, at the controls as the craft yawned ever so slightly on a course adjustment. The massive urban sprawl, of which Sector 13 was only a small part of, was spread out under and before them as the craft powered on at 25,000 feet and slowly dropping.
<<This is Transport flight 2-1-1. We're on course for approach to Precinct 13. Request clearance to touch down?">> said the pilot into the inbuilt communications suite of his helmet. The response was clearly in the affirmative as the pilot nodded his head up and down before beginning his standard end flight checklist. Behind him, standing, was another Arbitrator in a black jumpsuit and helmet. Though the figure cut by the second was clearly feminine. Turning around the Arbitrator aircrew woman faced perpendicular to the people sitting before her, buckled into crash webbing, their white uniforms crisp and cleanly pressed. Gold badges pinned to their left breast flaps bearing their names. Freshly graduated trainees from the Academy of Law.
The Arbitrator aircrew woman raised a hand extending all five fingers the full length of their digits, "Touch down in 15!"
The trainees had been in transit for the past three hours and those who could caught up on sleep in the cargo bay of the transport aircraft.
September 15th, 2120
Precinct 13
0640 Hours
A lone woman, muscled but well proportioned, complete with striking features of clearly slavic stock zipped up a black body glove. Cinching and pulling on parts of body armor. Making sure hard plates were properly settled and the synth-skin outer glove of her suit properly meshed with the thermal layer of her under-glove. A helmet rested on a locker shelf before her as she glanced at the small mirror in the interior door of the locker. A scowl on her lips as she took the helmet and placed it over her head. Letting the face mask retract to show her mouth and lower face. For their was no reason to have the face plate fully extended currently. The intercom of the locker room sounded, "Inspector Zvezda, High Inspector Volt requests your presence on the main landing platform."
Picking out one final object from the locker. A side arm, Zvezda looked at the display as it read her bio-metrics, flashing from orange to green quickly. Holstering her side arm, the iconic Mark III Lawman, Inspector Zvezda closed the locker abruptly as she left the locker room.
Moving from the locker room and into a wide hall were administrative, support, Arbitrator, and Inspectorate personnel moved about as the first shift replaced the third. Zvezda moved along until she reached a lift. Moving to take position between an Arbitrator and a Clerk. The Arbitrator gave Zvezda a quick salute before returning to ease. Zvezda returned the gesture as she took up her position. The Clerk, a small statured young man with spectacles bridging his nose, his brown eyes and plain face attempting to hide under short brown hair. Zvezda turned her head slowly to him and the man averted his gaze further.
"Top floor, if you please."
The man, clearly nervous, jolted at the sight of the push-button pad being next to him. As if he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh, uh, sorry sir, I mean mam'." Stabbing a finger to select the top floor. The lift rose smoothly as the sensation of lift took hold. Only pausing before the top floor to allow both the Arbitrator and Clerk out on level 61. Zvezda rolled her head on her shoulders as the lift climbed the last few floors before the light chimed: 65. The gunmetal gray doors slid open on well maintained hinges. Inspector Zvezda striding out and up a short staircase to the right until she was on a landing pad large enough to accommodate a pair a small transport plane or a pair of attack gunships.
High Inspector Volt, forty-three years of age, stood with hands clasped behind her back. A few strands of gray hair breaking up the course blackness growing from her scalp. Chocolate skin glistening in the orange glow of the morning Sun. Her body half rotating as she twisted her torso to put eyes on Zvezda.
"Inspector."
"High Inspector."
"We have new trainees."
"Must be sneaky."
Volt smirked as Zvezda pulled up beside her. Returning her gaze forward to the empty landing pad. "Fresh from the Academy. Some promising prospects, others...we'll see. Their files," said Volt as she raised a small data-slate which Zvezda took and began to look through with motions of her index finger. The scowl on her exposed lower face not shifting as she looked at the trainee files one by one.
"You want me to conduct final assessment on all of them? Today?" responded Zvezda with a slight turn of the head.
"Yes."
Zvezda didn't respond and merely handed the data-slate back after a few more minutes of browsing through their files.
Over Sector 13
0641 Hours
"Alright, all passengers make ready for final approach, welcome to Sector 13, the Oak Town, highest crime rate in all the Center Region," said the pilot into his helmet after flipping on the cargo-bay comms. The sarcastic tone of his voice carrying into the cargo-bay and to the ears of the Inspectorate trainees seated therein. The pilot continued, "If you look to our right we're just over the wire of the Precinct grounds. Bustling with activity as always."
Indeed, out the small windows the trainees could make out the imposing squat building of the Sector Precinct and its attendant grounds and facilities. Along the grounds personnel walked. A formation of Arbitrators in work out gear jogged behind their officer. Others conducted firing drills at a range. The white armored forms of Arbitrators patrolled the Precinct perimeter and watched from guard towers. A convoy of six APCs and a tank moved out from the South Gate on patrol. While another foot patrol of Arbitrators was returning via the North Gate. It looked more like an occupation army garrison than a Law Enforcement building. The transport began to slow rapidly and list.
Yawning in a wide arc the transport plane circled and the clunk of machinery could be heard as its engines rotated. The transport was VTOL capable and began to lower itself smoothly onto the top of the Precinct building on one of two landing pads.
"Passengers please remain buckled until the light turns green." remarked the pilot as the craft gave a slight jolt of touch down. The air crew woman marched down the cargo bay and stood next to the door as the light next to it went from red to green. A hiss of hydraulics and the door began to lower with the figures of an imperious black woman and an armored Inspector in armor not seen in any Academy schematic or training manuals awaited them.
"You're go for disembark!" shouted the aircrew woman as she waved the freshly graduated Inspectors off the transport.
September 14th, 2120
Sector 13, Zone L
Old Oakland Marshalling Yard
21:45 Hours
"Yuh, got the rocks, chief?" The sound of nostrils clearing as a quartet of figures stood in the deeper shadow of an old run down freight train yard. Long since incorporated as one of many stops adjacent to the Old Oakland Mag-Lev line running North-South through the Sector. The lapping of water to the West thrushing amid the rocks and concrete containment walls formed a moving mass of surface punctuated by the tops of half drowned towers. Remnants of the old districts of Oakland that had flooded when the polar ice caps first melted and Sea level rose over fifty meters. The man who initially spoke, gruff with long dreadlocks and a short rough black beard looked at his gloomy opposite from dark brown eyes. His light chocolate skin rough and clear signs of blue collar work on his hands, while muscles from either bodybuilding or hard labor showed from under patched denim overalls and jacket. His compatriot was similar if slight of build and puffed on a cheap cigarette of vat-grown tobacco.
Hair cropped short and pox scars on fair cheeks with slight blond stubble under his chin. His wife beater get up of white tank top and shorts finished the ensemble via dirty once-white-sneakers. Their opposites were pair of Asian men who wore leather jackets and riding slacks. Behind them a pair of motor-bikes from Harley-Kawasaki rested on polished silver kick stands. The desolate drab buildings around them full of smashed windows and detritus strewn doorways contrasted with the latter two's get up almost to a tee.
The Asian male on the right spoke up in reply, "Yeah, we got your dollar-bags, chill." Nodding to his comrade the Asian male on the left produced two small pouches containing clear synth-crack rocks bearing a slight rainbow glitter. C-Star, that's what the street called it. Lab synthesized crack cocaine infused with trace amounts of a home made LSD formula. Producing an extremely intense high, feelings of euphoria for an entire day with one hit, and very, very, addicting. A dollar-bag containing several rocks would last an addict a week as one intended. From their the price increased per rock.
The first pair produced a couple of Dollars as they readied to make the exchange, when the caucasian male to the right of the man with dreadlocks suddenly asked a question, "You guys carrying any Molly, good ole' shit, lookin to hit up a block party and get some of that sweet sweet poon." Dreadlocks chuckled and the Asian male holding the bags smiled, "We might. Not cheap though, fifty dollah's a pop."
"Fifty, shied, man. Better be so real shit. Not some of that fake ass diluted crap the Twenty-One Hundred Blues been sellin'."
"We're not the Twenty-One Hundred Blues friend." responded the Caucasian males counterpart.
The other Asian male shifted on his feet, "Look, we got a few hits of the real shit. Goin' to have to meet tomorrow for mo-, oh fuck!"
Blazing sirens as red, white, and blue lights lit up the dark mustering yard. The throaty thrum of a Grav-bike's repulsor field rising loudly as an armored figure sat on top of the flying cousin of the Asian males own motorcycles. A booming female voice assisted by a built in communication system in the Grav-bike blared. This is the law! Stay where you are with your hands up!
The Asian male carrying the dollar-bags dropped them as he sprinted off towards the bikes. Crack of a gunshot and the man bit the asphalt hard. Face first and rolling onto his side as he screamed in agony from a destroyed right kneecap. The bullet having shorn through the tendons to crack the knee cap and tumble out of an exit wound to the side. The Grav Bike touched pavement and the armored figure was already advancing, siren killed, backlit by the flashing lights mounted to the front and rear of the Grav-bike.
The other Asian male reached into his waistband before being pitched on his back by another gunshot. Red slowly expanding around his skull. The other two males backed away quickly. The Caucasian male tripping over a rock to land up against the mustering yard's pocked red brick wall. The advancing figure fully materializing into view, presaged by a pair of malevolent red-orange eyes staring unblinking from an angular full face helmet. The man with the dreadlocks raised his hands over his heads.
"Judge, we, we don't know these guys, its not what it looks like!" The red eyes moved with the aim of the fire arm clutched in an armored fist. "Citizen, Rodney Stallen, 37 from Mega-Block 144, Crisp Pines. You're under arrest for intent to buy narcotics as per Pacifica Penal Code 26/2 Subsection B, on the purchase of Illicit Drugs."
The Caucasian male, eyes wide with shock, propped himself up on his shoulder with arms out in front of him. The malevolent eyes looked over at him briefly, "Same for you, Cory Stackhouse, 35, also from Crisp Pines. Your sentences are a mandatory ten years in an Iso-Cell."
"C-come on Judge, it was a dollar-bag!"
"You said it's not what it looks like?" responded the helmeted figure of a Pacifica Inspector. The name: ZVEZDA, in raised relief on a golden badge over a stylized bronze eagle, while INSPECTORATE ran across the top of the gold badge inset into the left chest plate of the Inspector's body armor. The response, almost comedic in timing, caught both men aback as they glanced at each other. The man with the dreadlocks began to speak again, but more calmly, "They're friends of friends, we were going to a party, they brought that-,"
"Thought you didn't know them? Storytelling isn't your strong suit Rodney. Unless you go to abandon lots to meet friends of friends, whom you've never met before, frequently which is definitely abnormal. Especially, friends of friends who are Triad members. Who just so happened to bring the drug of choice for two felons with a long rap-sheet of drug possession. Sound about right?" Her words were cold, and that wasn't due to the voice box built into the Inspector's helmet either. Raising her opposing wrist she made to swipe a digit across a small polymer screen which lit up green. As she did so the man with the dread locks grunted as he swung his arms out. A quarter of blades springing from his fore arms. Mantis Blades. Popularized in the 2070's and 2080's due to earlier 21st century pop culture.
The Inspector side stepped, grabbed one of the man's arms and brought an armored knee cap up swiftly. Breaking his elbow. The man screamed, pitch rising as he was suddenly grasped by his own dreadlocks and hauled up. Not to face the Inspector, but away, and there the Caucasian man fumbled to take the safety off a small short nose pistol. One of those cheap cobbled together pieces from various spare parts by undercity gunsmiths.
"Drop the weapon, citizen!" said the Inspector quickly, clearly, and decisively as her own side arm came to a trained rest. The man with dreadlocks struggling with futility as he jerked and janked within the confines of her iron clad restraint. The Caucasian man finally thumbed the safety and made to raise it. His left eye socket burst in a spurt of gore as a third round exited the Inspector's Lawman. The last man, with the mantis claws and dread locks, began to mutter something akin to a prayer under his breath. When suddenly the iron grip released and he was pushed away.
"In addition to your previous charge, you're now charged with the attempted murder of an Inspector. What is your defense, citizen?" stated the Inspector matter-of-fact.
"I-Please, please!"
"Defense noted." Crack-thud.
Heavy armored footfalls sounded lowly on the pavement as the Inspector moved over to the first man shot. The Asian male in an almost delirious calm from blood loss. An expanding pool of red spreading from his ruined leg. The pair of malevolent red-orange eyes resting upon him. Lowering to crouch beside him. "If you answer my questions I can promise you chance of parole after five years in an Iso-Cell. How do you plead?"
"Ambulance, Ju-j-Inspector I-," mumbled the man as his grip slackened around his knee. His left arm rising up towards a pocket. The Lawman rising to aim at the side of the man's head as from the pocket emerged a knife, the Triad member released a yell his body with all remaining energy twisted to offer one good stab at his killer. His yell turning to a gasp as an armored hand grabbed his wrist. His strength ebbing he dropped the knife almost instantly. The Inspector rose to her feet and pointed her Lawman at the man's skull. His eyes fading away as his last breathe exited his lips. The pool of red almost touching the boots of Inspector Zvezda. Who now spoke into a risen vambrace still glowing with a green-lit stripe.
"Inspector Zvezda. Requesting meat-wagon to my position. Four bodies for recycling and narcotic retrieval."
The chirp of a woman's voice materializing along the airwaves a couple seconds later, <<Copy that Inspector Zvezda, meat-wagon inbound for four, and narcotic retrieval, to your marked position. Over.>>
Letting her wrist drop Inspector Zvezda moved over and crouched near the dropped dollar-bags. Picking one up gingerly she looked at them from behind her helmet's face mask.
September 15th, 2120
Over Sector 13
0635 Hours
The thrum of synth-bio fuel powered engine turbines filled the spartan cargo bay interior of the small armored Judicial transport craft. The Arbitrator pilot, wearing an Arbitrator pilot's trademark black jumpsuit and helmet, at the controls as the craft yawned ever so slightly on a course adjustment. The massive urban sprawl, of which Sector 13 was only a small part of, was spread out under and before them as the craft powered on at 25,000 feet and slowly dropping.
<<This is Transport flight 2-1-1. We're on course for approach to Precinct 13. Request clearance to touch down?">> said the pilot into the inbuilt communications suite of his helmet. The response was clearly in the affirmative as the pilot nodded his head up and down before beginning his standard end flight checklist. Behind him, standing, was another Arbitrator in a black jumpsuit and helmet. Though the figure cut by the second was clearly feminine. Turning around the Arbitrator aircrew woman faced perpendicular to the people sitting before her, buckled into crash webbing, their white uniforms crisp and cleanly pressed. Gold badges pinned to their left breast flaps bearing their names. Freshly graduated trainees from the Academy of Law.
The Arbitrator aircrew woman raised a hand extending all five fingers the full length of their digits, "Touch down in 15!"
The trainees had been in transit for the past three hours and those who could caught up on sleep in the cargo bay of the transport aircraft.
September 15th, 2120
Precinct 13
0640 Hours
A lone woman, muscled but well proportioned, complete with striking features of clearly slavic stock zipped up a black body glove. Cinching and pulling on parts of body armor. Making sure hard plates were properly settled and the synth-skin outer glove of her suit properly meshed with the thermal layer of her under-glove. A helmet rested on a locker shelf before her as she glanced at the small mirror in the interior door of the locker. A scowl on her lips as she took the helmet and placed it over her head. Letting the face mask retract to show her mouth and lower face. For their was no reason to have the face plate fully extended currently. The intercom of the locker room sounded, "Inspector Zvezda, High Inspector Volt requests your presence on the main landing platform."
Picking out one final object from the locker. A side arm, Zvezda looked at the display as it read her bio-metrics, flashing from orange to green quickly. Holstering her side arm, the iconic Mark III Lawman, Inspector Zvezda closed the locker abruptly as she left the locker room.
Moving from the locker room and into a wide hall were administrative, support, Arbitrator, and Inspectorate personnel moved about as the first shift replaced the third. Zvezda moved along until she reached a lift. Moving to take position between an Arbitrator and a Clerk. The Arbitrator gave Zvezda a quick salute before returning to ease. Zvezda returned the gesture as she took up her position. The Clerk, a small statured young man with spectacles bridging his nose, his brown eyes and plain face attempting to hide under short brown hair. Zvezda turned her head slowly to him and the man averted his gaze further.
"Top floor, if you please."
The man, clearly nervous, jolted at the sight of the push-button pad being next to him. As if he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh, uh, sorry sir, I mean mam'." Stabbing a finger to select the top floor. The lift rose smoothly as the sensation of lift took hold. Only pausing before the top floor to allow both the Arbitrator and Clerk out on level 61. Zvezda rolled her head on her shoulders as the lift climbed the last few floors before the light chimed: 65. The gunmetal gray doors slid open on well maintained hinges. Inspector Zvezda striding out and up a short staircase to the right until she was on a landing pad large enough to accommodate a pair a small transport plane or a pair of attack gunships.
High Inspector Volt, forty-three years of age, stood with hands clasped behind her back. A few strands of gray hair breaking up the course blackness growing from her scalp. Chocolate skin glistening in the orange glow of the morning Sun. Her body half rotating as she twisted her torso to put eyes on Zvezda.
"Inspector."
"High Inspector."
"We have new trainees."
"Must be sneaky."
Volt smirked as Zvezda pulled up beside her. Returning her gaze forward to the empty landing pad. "Fresh from the Academy. Some promising prospects, others...we'll see. Their files," said Volt as she raised a small data-slate which Zvezda took and began to look through with motions of her index finger. The scowl on her exposed lower face not shifting as she looked at the trainee files one by one.
"You want me to conduct final assessment on all of them? Today?" responded Zvezda with a slight turn of the head.
"Yes."
Zvezda didn't respond and merely handed the data-slate back after a few more minutes of browsing through their files.
Over Sector 13
0641 Hours
"Alright, all passengers make ready for final approach, welcome to Sector 13, the Oak Town, highest crime rate in all the Center Region," said the pilot into his helmet after flipping on the cargo-bay comms. The sarcastic tone of his voice carrying into the cargo-bay and to the ears of the Inspectorate trainees seated therein. The pilot continued, "If you look to our right we're just over the wire of the Precinct grounds. Bustling with activity as always."
Indeed, out the small windows the trainees could make out the imposing squat building of the Sector Precinct and its attendant grounds and facilities. Along the grounds personnel walked. A formation of Arbitrators in work out gear jogged behind their officer. Others conducted firing drills at a range. The white armored forms of Arbitrators patrolled the Precinct perimeter and watched from guard towers. A convoy of six APCs and a tank moved out from the South Gate on patrol. While another foot patrol of Arbitrators was returning via the North Gate. It looked more like an occupation army garrison than a Law Enforcement building. The transport began to slow rapidly and list.
Yawning in a wide arc the transport plane circled and the clunk of machinery could be heard as its engines rotated. The transport was VTOL capable and began to lower itself smoothly onto the top of the Precinct building on one of two landing pads.
"Passengers please remain buckled until the light turns green." remarked the pilot as the craft gave a slight jolt of touch down. The air crew woman marched down the cargo bay and stood next to the door as the light next to it went from red to green. A hiss of hydraulics and the door began to lower with the figures of an imperious black woman and an armored Inspector in armor not seen in any Academy schematic or training manuals awaited them.
"You're go for disembark!" shouted the aircrew woman as she waved the freshly graduated Inspectors off the transport.